Page 38 of The Unexpected

13

ALL ABOUT LACHLAN

Lachlan

My apartment is too quiet as I work, the echo off the brushed concrete making even my soft footsteps sound like an intrusion. There are very few doorways in this place—just angles and lines, cold surfaces, nothing to collect the dust of sentimentality. There’s a crucifix on one wall, wood worn black around the edges from the hands of too many penitents, and a steel rack above the counter hung with a mismatched arsenal of cookware: Marine-issue, pre-seasoned and beat to hell. Then again, my life has only belonged to two institutions: the Marines and the Church, so I suppose the decor is appropriate.

I roll my sleeves to the elbow, survey the prep. Hunter and Stella are going to be here soon, and I need to move shit along. Arborio rice in a heavy porcelain bowl, shallots diced fine, garlic cloves lined like a firing squad along the cutting board. The wine is already breathing, a Montrachet I splurged on from the Bottle Shop downtown—never serve the cheap stuff to a rich man, especially if you’re planning to seduce his niece with it. Not that I’m thinking of it as seduction. More like a scene of total filth, but this time off church premises. I grimace a little. Clearly, what we’ve been doing could get me fired. Clearly, my reputation could be destroyed. So what the fuck am I doing?

Yet I can’t get the image of Stella out of my mind with her big blue eyes, golden hair, and generous tits. I can’t forget the way she gasps whenever she’s entered, holding perfectly still as a cock violates one of her tight holes. I can’t get over the image of Hunter violating her too, his mien dark and forbidding, even as he enjoys every second of the depravity.

Fuck.

I’m so fucked.

But they’ll be here any minute, so I focus on the task at hand. It’s what being a Marine taught me. Do what you can, given the situation and resources. I check the butter, slice off a perfect square, then set it back in the fridge like I haven’t already gone through half the stick taste-testing tonight’s first try.

Risotto isn’t fancy, not really. It’s the kind of food you make for yourself when you’re too tired to pretend you have a palate, but you want to feel cared for. Every Marine knows how to cook rice in a pit. This is just a more evolved form of that. I let the onion and garlic sweat in a Dutch oven, swirl in the rice, then drown the mix in white wine. The whole place fills up with the smell—alcohol baking off, then the wallop of rosemary and thyme, the bass note of the browning. It’s warm, and for a moment, I let myself believe this is a real home, not just another transient billet I’ll abandon when the next call comes.

When the knock lands—three taps, deliberate—I wipe my hands on a towel and open up.

Stella stands in the hallway with her hair down, the gold of it almost glowing, making her into an angel. The dress she wears is blue, but not the same blue as her eyes; this is deeper, more liquid, the neckline a sharp scoop that nearly halves her breastbone. It’s a dress that is aware of its own effect, the hem daring you to look up. She’s even taller in heels, her long legs elongated.

Just behind her is Hunter, a huge slab of dark suit and confidence. He looms, not in an overt way, but in the way of someone who’s never been denied the right of first entry. His hand is at Stella’s back, the placement casual but somehow reminding you that he’s claiming this little filly. His other hand holds a gift bag.

“Hey,” I say, stepping aside. “Welcome to my humble home.”

Stella moves first, her perfume coming in just a second before the warmth of her arm, then the brush of her skirt as she passes me. She glances once at the crucifix, and her mouth twitches in something between amusement and challenge.

“This apartment belongs to the church,” I say in a dry tone. “It’s part of the perks of being a pastor at Trinity.”

She smiles sweetly.

“Well, I like your place. It’s homey and the smell of dinner is delicious.”

Hunter follows, and as he crosses the threshold, he clocks the space—one of those unconscious habit of men who’ve spent time in dangerous places. He notes the windows, the exits, the fact that the only sharp knives are within my reach. Where did he learn that? Who the fuck knows? Then he relaxes, just enough to make sure I’ve noticed.

“We brought wine,” he growls, setting the bag on the kitchen island. His voice is rich as a steakhouse martini, and he has the posture to match: one arm on the counter, legs spread just enough to block out the rest of the world.

I nod at the gift bag. “You didn’t have to.”

He shrugs. “It’s what you do.”

Stella slides onto a barstool at the island, her bare knees crossing. For a moment, she looks right at me, not at Hunter, and there’s something in her gaze that hits me straight in the heart, making my knees week. I have to look look away, which I do, to the rice. What the fuck is going on?

I stir. “Dinner in ten,” I say, my voice mostly steady.

“Smells amazing,” she says, and she means it. Her eyes close just a little as she breathes in, and the sight of her, chin tipped up, hair behind her ear, is enough to spike my pulse. I focus on the risotto.

Hunter claims the stool next to her, the one that’s just a shade closer than necessary. His presence is magnetic, even across the slab of concrete. He grins at me, all wolf.

“You ever cook for a living, Pastor?”

“Only in a previous life,” I reply. “Five years as a line cook, if you count MREs and boiling ramen.”

He laughs, a real laugh. “Marines?”

I nod.